Whose Name Is Called Immanuel
by meldahlie
Summary: What is Christmas? A small Telmarine wonders. A festive tale from the first winter of King Caspian the Tenth's reign.
1. Chapter 1

Whose Name is called Immanuel 

What is Christmas? A small Telmarine wonders.

Festive one-shot, post _Prince Caspian._

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 _A/N: For those who liked Garian, for those who like Caspian, and for all those who like a little Narnia with their Christmas – Merry Christmas :)_

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"Christmas." Garian tried out the word carefully. "What is Christmas?"

He wasn't really expecting an answer, and he got none, only Lizzie turning her head to huff warm clouds of white, horsey breath at him in the cold air of the stable. He rubbed her nose gently, and she turned back to her hay.

Garian sighed out a small white cloud of his own. "I don't s'pose you'd know, would you, Lizzie? I don't think Lord Sopespian had Christmas on his estate. Only the fireworks."

Garian sighed again. For as long as he could remember, which was all the nine years he had lived with his great-aunt and a very very little of when Father and Mother had been alive before that, mid-winter had been marked by the commemorations of King Miraz' birthday, two days before the shortest day. "Fireworks for the grand folk and bonfires for the poor folk, and both of them a waste of money," Garian's great-aunt would grumble every year. She never went to the village bonfire, but she would let Garian go, with a bundle of sticks because you were meant to bring something, however poor you were. And, even when the other boys from the village made fun of him for bringing nothing more than sticks, Garian still felt it was fun. Standing about in the dark around a crackling, roaring fire; the occasional offer of part of a baked potato if someone had had a good enough harvest to put a few potatoes in the fire; the three cheers for the king once the fire started to die down: it was a shame it was a waste of money.

It was also a shame that the new King Caspian had his birthday in the spring. It was the one thing Garian felt was disappointing about the new situation in Narnia. But then, cheering for Miraz had not brought them Lizzie, nor the wakened Trees and talking Beasts, and those were certainly worth facing a long, dark winter with no bonfires for.

On this thought, Garian leaned over from his perch on the corn bin to give Lizzie's flank a quick rub. She huffed into her hay, and Garian grinned. Lizzie didn't need to be a Talking Horse – except that if she had been, she might have been able to answer the questions which had been bubbling in him since that afternoon.

Garian and Lizzie had been down in the village to barter half a sack of carrots (very large and fine ones grown on Lizzie's manure) to the miller for a sack of corn, to keep Lizzie warm and fed in this cold snowy weather. It had been a successful errand, and Garian had just been strapping the corn sack onto Lizzie's back for the walk home, when there had been a sharp, noisy chakking from middle of the village green. Perched on top of the well-house had been a huge Magpie.

Its "Chak-chak-chak!" had brought all the villagers rushing out to see it. The sight of the miller, fat and puffing and with his apron strings flying out behind him, running to look at a bird would have been quite exciting enough as far as Garian was concerned. But the Magpie had produced a large scroll from under its wing and read out a proclamation, in the Name of the King, that a thing called 'Christmas' was to celebrated by a feast across all Narnia in a week's time.

If Christmas meant a feast, it sounded good. "But what is it?" Garian enquired again of the quiet stable.

Lizzie seemed to be tired of this question, for she gave a very petulant huff and stamped one back foot warningly. Garian slid off the corn-bin. "It matters, you know," he objected. "If we're meant to celebrate something, we need to know what it is. And I don't know, and you don't know, and all Aunt will say is that it's stuff and nonsense for the grand folks and no difference to the poor, just like she did when the proclamation came in the summer about Aslan and the new King."

Lizzie's twitching tail seemed to agree, and Garian shook his head in despair. "We _ought_ to know, Lizzie. Really, _ought."_ He shut the stable door with a bang for emphasis.

If it had been cold enough to see your breath inside the stable, it was much much colder than that outside. Garian's breath felt rather as if it was freezing _inside_ him, and the cold from the crunching snow underfoot seized his toes as if he hadn't any boots on at all. Despite this, Garian paused and stared up at the clear, star-filled sky. _What was Christmas?_

It had to be something. And since it was something from the new King, it must be something that either he had thought of new, to make up for having his birthday in the spring, or something from Old Narnia. The first idea was exciting; the second made Garian's toes tingle for quite another reason than the cold. If Christmas was Old Narnia-!

Well, what?

As cold as the snow, the realisation sank into Garian that he didn't know any way at all to find out. There had been quite a few Old Narnians about in the summer and autumn, as Garian and Lizzie had come and gone to the common and down to the village and through the woods to sell cabbages. But with the snow, he no longer met Dryads whisking graciously along the forest paths, or a dwarf passing on the road with a small pony of his own.

Garian kicked at the snow with his good boot; the one without a hole in the toe. The only Old Narnians he knew where to find were the Black Dwarves who had opened a smithy in the woods beyond the next village. They did excellent work and good business, since the village smith had, for reasons Garian could not fathom at all, not stayed in Narnia – but that didn't make them the sort of people you could really go up to in cold blood and say: "Please, what's Christmas?"

Besides which, the last time he had met the Black Dwarves had been when he had taken Lizzie to have a shoe replaced, and his own boot had just been wearing through into the hole. The dwarf working on Lizzie had noticed, and tapped Garian on the toe with the hammer, and said "Fix that for you for a crescent!" He'd laughed, as if he'd meant it kindly, and all the other dwarves had laughed too – but Garian hadn't a spare coin in the world. At the very memory, he tucked his boot behind his leg. He couldn't go back there. At least not until the weather was warm enough to go barefoot once more.

Garian sighed another vast white cloud into the frosty air. _What was Christmas?_ He should have asked the Magpie, but it would probably not have had time for a small, twelve-year-old Telmarine with a hole in one boot and no money.

Who would have time for a small, twelve-year-old Telmarine with a hole in one boot and no money?

 _Someone at the Castle,_ said the most inexplicable little voice at the back of his mind – a voice so clear though small Garian actually looked round to see who had spoken. No-one was there, but it was quite true. If Christmas was an idea of the new King's, _everyone_ at the Royal Castle would know what it was! And somebody, somebody, would surely tell him. Especially … Garian's mind ranged to the cabbages hanging by their roots from the cellar ceiling. If Christmas was a feast, the Beaversdam cook would certainly want the biggest cabbage. If he, Garian, offered it at a very reasonable price, the cook would be in a good humour and tell him what Christmas was.

Garian nodded in decision. The tongue-lashing he would get from his great-aunt for selling the biggest cabbage would be worth it, to know what Christmas was. He would waste no time. He and Lizzie would go to Beaversdam in the morning.

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 _A/N: Answers to follow! I just have to go make marzipan first... :)_


	2. Chapter 2

Whose Name is Called Immanuel: Chapter Two

 _A/N: The before-dinner chapter...! Usual warnings for theology apply :)_

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This had not been a good idea. Even for the mystery of Christmas, this had not been a good idea.

Garian stopped, and scrubbed his sleeve across his cold face. Boys did not cry. Certainly not big boys of twelve like himself. And he was Not lost. You couldn't be lost if you knew you were at the Royal Castle at Beaversdam, could you?

Except you could be awfully lost inside the vast extended grounds of the Royal Castle at Beaversdam.

Garian sighed, a long, juddering sort of sigh that sounded horribly lost in the quiet of this strange, snowy orchard he'd come back to, yet again. Unless it was a different orchard. The castle seemed to have so many of orchards, and gardens, and courtyards and gateways. Was he ever going to get out of here?

There had been no answer to his knock at the door of the kitchens when he and Lizzie had arrived. Plenty of amazing smells coming out, but no-one answering the door. He'd waited a bit, knocked a bit more, then tied Lizzie to the hitching ring with the cabbage on her saddle (no-one at the new king's castle would steal a cabbage, surely) and set out to follow the trail of footprints in the slushy snow, that led out of the door and round the corner.

He'd hoped the trail might be that of the cook, or someone who could tell him where the cook was, but round the corner the single line of prints had merged into a wider path with so many, many footprints, they made the tracks across the village green at home look like the single trail of a robin in fresh snow. He'd tried to carry on. Then he'd tried to go back. And then everything had gone wrong. The archway Garian thought he'd gone through one way hadn't been the same one going back. He'd crossed a strange courtyard, turned another corner and come abruptly into the middle of a group of soldiers sword fighting.

Garian supposed now, in the quiet of the orchard, that they'd probably just been practising. But it had been so sudden, and loud, and ferocious looking, he'd jumped and bolted out the first gate he'd seen – which turned out to be the kind which only opened from one side. With the din of the clashing swords, no-one had heard him knocking and calling from beyond the gate.

So. He wasn't lost. Just – lost. Garian scrubbed at his face again, and started forwards. If you walked long enough, you must eventually come to a gateway that let you out, or maybe just even someone who could let you out. But everyone at the castle seemed to be in the castle today, or at least not wandering about in the orchards. He could see the keep, with the red cloaked sentries on the ramparts, but they were too far up to hear him if he shouted. Garian put his head down and trudged on. His boots crunched in the snow. His toes in the boot with the hole in it were cold. Lizzie would be getting cold, too.

Garian gritted his teeth at that thought. He could stay lost; it didn't matter if he couldn't find out what Christmas was; he could even be late home for dinner, so late his great-aunt might whip him; but he couldn't leave Lizzie to go getting cold by the kitchen door! Somehow, somewhere, he was going to get out of here!

This orchard too ended in a wall and a shut gate. He'd avoided shut gates, in case they trapped him yet further. But if Lizzie was cold, and this gate led towards the keep, he had to try it. He pushed down the latch and stepped through.

A garden – or a courtyard – you couldn't tell when all the ground was a rumpled blanket of snow. There was a bare stemmed tree at the centre, snow-dusted stems of spiny roses trained up the walls, an arched open gateway beyond. But these weren't what caught Garian's eye. At the side of the garden, a young man in a red cloak was bent over, scraping up a small pile of snow. He looked up at the noise of the gate – and then straightened up sharply

Garian jumped back, anxious, but the young man dusted off his hands and smiled. "Hello," he said carefully, holding out one hand rather as Garian himself would have held out a hand to reassure Lizzie. "Don't be afraid. What did you want? Did someone send you out here to find me?" he added, as Garian remained silent.

Garian shook his head, and the young man came crunching through the snow towards him. "Don't be afraid," he repeated. "What did you want?" he asked again, setting one hand gently on Garian's shoulder.

There was no doubt: the young man was one of the grand folk. He had a fur cap, not a knitted one, his red cloak had fur trim all around the edge, and the hand on Garian's shoulder had a gold ring on one finger that would, given the price they had bought Lizzie for, have bought at least a hundred horses.

"What did you want?" the young man repeated. "Are you lost? Or were you looking for me?"

What did he want? He wanted to find Lizzie – he wanted to not be lost – he wanted to sell the cabbage – he hadn't been looking for anyone – except maybe the cook – the answers swirled about in Garian's head as he gulped and looked up.

"I – I – please – sir-" Garian gulped again. When the grand folk asked you questions, you were meant to answer them – but his own question simply blurted out: "Please, sir, what's Christmas?"

"What's Christmas?!"

The young man literally blinked, and Garian rushed to try and repair his impoliteness. "I mean, yes sir – no sir – it doesn't matter, sir-"

"Christmas matters a good deal," said the young man, suddenly and firmly. He smiled down at Garian again. "It matters a good deal."

"Because it's the new king's feast?" Garian queried, a slight flicker of hope rising that he, perhaps, at least wasn't going to be scolded or imprisoned for impertinence.

The young man paused – or maybe froze was the better description, for he stood perfectly still for a moment, staring almost blankly at Garian. Then he nodded, slowly, and let go of Garian's shoulder, and squatted down into the snow. "Christmas isn't – the new king's feast," he said, as slowly as his hands were moving, scraping the snow into a mound. "He's simply ordered Narnia to observe it again."

"But what is it?" Garian repeated. "Other than stuff and nonsense for the grand folks and no difference to the poor?"

"Other than _what?_!" the young man spluttered, looking up from his pile of snow.

"Stuff and nonsense for the grand folks and no difference to the poor." This repetition didn't seem to relieve the young man's shocked expression, and Garian fumbled for an explanation. "That's what my great-aunt says it is. At least, that's what she'd say it is, because that's what she says everything is that's to do with the grand folks. The old king, and the new king, and the War last summer and – and all the new things in Narnia. We – we're only poor," he added, in case that was relevant. "It cost everything to buy Lizzie – our horse – from Lord Sopespian's estate last summer."

"I see." The young man studied Garian's face carefully. "And what is it that you think of this new Narnia?"

"It's splendid!" said Garian earnestly. "But I don't understand what Christmas is."

The young man smiled, and looked down at his snow pile again. "Christmas," he said rather forcefully, scooping up a large handful of the snow and rolling it into a ball. "Christmas isn't the new king's feast, any more than Narnia is the new king's country. They're both Aslan's; it is just that He has set the king to rule over His country, and to see that His feasts are celebrated." He set the snowball down on the ground, and scooped up another handful of snow. "Do you know about the White Witch, and how she made everywhere always winter? The Great Winter?"

Garian nodded. Long ago, Mother had used to tell him those tales, and ever since the new king in the summer, people had been talking about how they were really, after all, true.

"And the Golden Age which followed it? With the Four Monarchs from the Other World?"

"Who – who came back this summer?" Garian ventured. That idea was a bit mind-boggling, really, that you might have Kings and Queens from the ancient stories coming into everyday Narnia. If it had been one of the boys from the village who'd told him it, Garian would have been sure it wasn't true. But all the Dryads said so too, and surely Dryads didn't lie.

"Yes." The young man nodded. "They came this summer, but they came the first time, at the start of the Golden Age, when it was still the Great Winter. _"Always winter and never Christmas" –_ because Christmas is Aslan's feast. That's what they call it on the Seven Isles: the Feast of Aslan."

The young man rolled yet another snowball, and added it to the stack. "They came in the Winter, and then Aslan came, and the Spring came – but He and they both came _before_ the Spring, you see? And the first thing which showed that the Witch's power was weakening was that it was Christmas. Father Christmas came, and brought the Gifts to the Kings and Queens."

At this point, he shuffled back a bit from his squatting position, turned slightly to face a clear patch of snow, and began to lay the snowballs into a ring. "So," he said, "Christmas is to remember that. To celebrate Aslan's coming to us – His first step on the path to the Stone Table and the Deeper Magic from before the dawn of time."

The ring of snowballs had grown three high, each layer overlapping the previous to leave big gaps in the wall. The young man balanced another ball on, then rose and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "I'm sure I brought it with me," he muttered, switching hands to rummage in another set of pockets. "I really thought I _had …_ ah-ha!"

'It' was a stub of a fat candle, and as Garian watched, the young man drew out a small gold tinder box too, crouched down and lit the candle. Then he reached in, and put the candle in the middle of snowball ring. "Light, hope, new life, in the snow and the dark. Does that make sense to you?"

"Christmas is … Aslan coming," said Garian slowly, trying to think this through.

"He might do," said the young man cheerily. "But it's _remembering_ Aslan coming. Remembering the ice cracking behind Him, and the snow melting at His gaze. It's not that He does again what He has done perfectly once. It's that we have a day to specially remember it. And it's now, because the darkest part of the winter has passed."

Garian frowned, uncertainly, and the young man paused in setting another snowball onto his stack. "Your horse?"

"Ye-yes, sir?" Garian gulped. "She's – she's at the kitchens."

"I hope she's _outside_ the kitchens," said the young man gently. "You have her all the time?"

"Ye-yes sir – sir – yes?"

The young man rolled an extra snowball and set it carefully on the stack. "Do you remember the day you got her?"

"Ye-yes?"

"And do you just remember it, or think of it specially when the same day comes round each year?"

"Y-yes!" Garian cried, suddenly realising where this apparently complete change of subject fitted in. "So – so– "

He didn't finish, because the young man beamed with satisfaction and set the very last snowball on the top of the perfect pyramid through which the light of the small candle flickered – and because a faun in a bright red scarf trotted into the courtyard through the doorway in the far wall and called "Your Majesty! Your Majesty!"

Your Majesty?!

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	3. Chapter 3

**Whose Name is Called Immanuel: chapter 3**

"Your Majesty! Your Majesty!"

The faun continued to call as he trotted across the courtyard, and the world continued to fall in dreadful ruin and horror about Garian's ears. He had interrupted the king! Spoken to the king! Asked questions of the king! Worst of all, failed to see it was the king!

"I-I di-didn't know!" Garian stammered out desperately as the faun stopped and bowed before the king, and then turned an inquiring gaze at Garian.

"We were both remiss," said the king solemnly. "I failed to enquire of your name, either."

"I-i-it's Garian," said Garian quickly.

"Garian," the king repeated. He smiled for some reason, not all as if he was angry. "And I, as you have now learned, am King Caspian – and I am very glad to know so candidly that at least one of my people thinks the new situation in Narnia is 'splendid', as you put it."

He turned towards the waiting faun. "Garian, this is Master Oscuns. Oscuns, Garian. What was it that you sought me for?"

The faun called Oscuns bowed politely towards Garian, and then to the king. "The decorations in your Majesty's study are now finished, so your Majesty need not be disturbed any longer-"

"I didn't mean – I didn't mean at all to – to disturb you!" Garian protested with a wail.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" The king waved both hands in a hastily hushing gesture. "No one has been disturbing! No one at all! Oscuns, I crave your pardon for my ill humour at the invasion of the study with a forest of greenery. Garian, I think you were sent to me and I was sent to you."

"I brought the biggest cabbage to sell so I could ask what Christmas was in the kitchens," Garian put in, uncertain at this idea of having been 'sent' anywhere. "Since I couldn't ask the Black Dwarves at the village smithy."

The king frowned. "Why not? Are they not friendly?"

"Oh, no!" Garian shook his head. "They are friendly, really, they are. But I couldn't go there because-" He stopped, but it was too late. The king was waiting, and there was nothing to do but say the terrible truth. "Because they offered to mend the hole in my boot and – and – and I haven't a coin to have it mended with!"

He blushed, and then blushed some more as Master Oscuns made a noise that might have been a suppressed laugh. The king did not laugh. "Oscuns," he said rather sharply. "Do you know the current price for cabbages?"

The question seemed to catch Master Oscuns by surprise, for he let out a splutter, choked, coughed heartily and finally gasped out a number of 'Trees' far more than a single cabbage was worth.

"It's only one cabbage!" Garian objected quickly, forgetting the shame over the boot in the fear he might be thought to have overcharged for his wares.

"But you said it was the biggest one," said the king, for some reason smiling at him again. "And if it is the biggest cabbage in all Narnia, I think we should have it – for dinner, Oscuns," he added. "Tell the cook, with my compliments. Garian, will you stay and partake?"

"I, er, no..." Garian shook his head. 'Partake' sounded a very grand word, neither did he fancy going home to tell his great-aunt that he had not only sold but then eaten the biggest cabbage. "I mean, no, thank you, er- er-" The thought suddenly struck him that it might be treason to decline an invitation from the king without a good reason. Needing to get home before dark would sound like he didn't trust the Old Narnians in the woods. That his great-aunt would be cross was too commonplace an occurrence to make a good reason. "I mustn't disturb you at dinner!" he blurted out, finally recalling how cross the village miller was if anyone called at lunchtimes. If millers needed peace at meals, so much more kings. "I've already disturbed you once-!"

"You didn't disturb me," said the king firmly. "The king is for the country, not the country for the king. As I said, it seems I was sent out here to you." He put his hands in his pockets and seemed to consider for a minute. "What is Christmas?" he said musingly. "What is Christmas? Garian, who deals with you when you come to the kitchens?"

"The cook," said Garian. "Or sometimes the grand lady – that is, one of the grand ladies – I mean –" He stopped in a fresh tangle, but the king shook his head.

"There's only the one," he said. "Lady Gwen. But I think you will find she is too busy helping the fauns fix swags of ivy all over the Great Hall today to come and see you, so you will have to ask the cook." The king paused, suddenly solemn. "Garian, will you do something for me? No, two things. When Oscuns has paid you for the cabbage, go and have your boot mended, and tell the Dwarves that the King thanks them-"

"Tell the Dwarves that the King thanks them," Garian repeated faintly, uncertain exactly what this strange message might mean but not wanting to get a word of it wrong.

"Yes. And secondly, ask the cook to give you a box of candles-"

"A box!" Garian gasped. Had the young – the king any idea just how expensive even just single candles were?!

"A whole box," said the king firmly. "And when you get home, make a snow lantern" – he pointed down to his own – "and when people ask what it is, tell them what it means. Tell them what Christmas is. Will you do that?"

"Ye-yes!" said Garian earnestly. If the king asked you to do anything, you should do it – but to do something as important as retelling the king's explanation of Christmas, of course he would! "Yes!" he repeated, to try and show this. "I mean, yes, Your Majesty!" He wasn't quite sure what good manners in the presence of the king were, but he pulled off his cap as his great-aunt had used to make him do if they saw Lord Sopespian go past. "I will, Your Majesty, I will!"

King Caspian laughed, a friendly laugh not a mocking one, and reached out to squeeze Garian's shoulder. "Garian –" He shook his head. "The Lion bless you – Christmas and always. Tell the cook she's to put a box of sugar lumps for that horse of yours in the parcel as well. Merry Christmas."

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	4. Chapter 4

**Whose Name is Called Immanuel: Epilogue**

 _Several years later, the first Christmas after the return of the Dawn Treader..._

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The afternoon wind was rather cold. As was to be expected, given that the thick clouds which had rolled down over Narnia last night had brought a blanket of snow, even as far as Cair Paravel. The clouds had gone now, the thin winter sun was shining, but Trumpkin still turned his collar up before stumping out for his walk.

No one else was around. But he wasn't, apparently, the only person to have been out walking in the new snow.

The King and Queen had been walking in the gardens. A trail of snow lanterns marked their route.

Lord and Lady Rhoop had been walking in the orchards. A trail of snow lanterns marked their route.

Lord and Lady Mavramorn had gone as far as the eastern shore. A pair of rather wobbly snow lanterns which contained slightly too much sand in each snowball bore witness to this.

Lord Drinian, Trumpkin presumed, was responsible for the large snow lantern on the edge of the lawn down by the quay.

Trumpkin humphed. "Snowballs and starlight! By the Lion's Mane!" Then he marched steadily on through the snow to the point on the western shore where Their Majesties had first brought him ashore, and built a very large snow lantern.

The coming of Aslan's light into the darkness – what else was Christmas for?

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 _A/N: And Merry Christmas 2018 to all the Narnians, young and old! :)_


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